[Martin Parker]

A youth there was with football in his hand
Returned from Cape Town sooner than he’d planned
With moll all flash and leggy, known as Wag,
Though truthfully no more than Shopping Bag.
For as we passed by Southwark’s retail Mall
She vanished, implants, fake tan, bling and all.
An MP too there was, expenses paid,
Whom jeering crowds left wholly undismayed;
An eco-hero too, who hugged dead trees
And died, unmourned, near Penge, of Elm Disease;
While poet Ransome-Davies joined to seek
To give his Bonus Fiver won that week
In thanks for intercession by the Saint
To keep him winning what mere mortals cain’t.
(My ghost, you’ll notice, made the trip as well,
And since I died you’ll see it’s learnt to spell.)

[Marion Shore]

As soon as we had left the Tabard’s gate
Our Host bade me a story to relate.
I began a tale of wedded strife
All about a much–beleaguered wife,
Whose husband, so it seemed, was only able
To guzzle beer and gawp at sports on cable
Until she made him sleep in the garage.
This was greeted by a great barrage
Of curses from the Miller and the Reeve.
The Seaman used language you would not believe!
Then cried the Wife of Bath, “Now hold your peace!
Stop squawking like a flock of angry geese!
Lordinges, by all the Saintes glory
For shame! After all, 'tis but a story!”
She winked as we passed through a sunlit dale,
And said to me: "Lambkyn, wait till they hear my tale!"

[John Whitworth]

The taxmen, on their horses, huge and pale,
Rode soberly. They were not drunk of ale.
Ah no! For they were drunk of human folly.
It was despair that made them fat and jolly.
‘Friend, is it you?’ they shouted on the road.
‘We have your number and we have your code.
Fear not, dear friend, your letter’s in the post.
You were, and are, indubitably toast:
We’ll have your house and chattels at a stroke!’
And how they laughed, yet no man shared the joke.
And no man with them rode. They rode alone
And spoke continually by telephone.
They rode alone, for no man would beside
Great Satan and his laughing devils ride.